Not From Vermont
by Salmagundi
Summary: Maple syrup is more than a sweet topping for pancakes, it's a point of pride. A word to the wise: never insult a nation's breakfast items. Canada/America


_**~ Not From Vermont ~**_

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_Warnings: This contains oral sex, incest (inasmuch as nations are related anyway) and the inappropriate use of maple syrup._

_Notes: This was written for kamitori in the Hetalia Sunshine Exchange_

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There were certain occurrences in Canada's life that could be taken as rote. For example, America coming over for surprise visits. These were actually a fairly regular occurrence. Canada knew a large part of it was because they were so close, but that didn't sometimes mean that he wasn't tempted to pretend he wasn't home. Patience being a virtue and all, Canada generally bit back these urges and humoured his brother whenever one of these unannounced visits happened. Whether it was the unveiling of America's newest invention -

_"Haven't you ever been sad that you couldn't have peanut butter, pickles and ice cream all at the same time without opening three containers?" _

_"No... I can't say I have, Al." _

_"Well, now you can! Try this Peanut Butter Gherkin Ice Cream!"_

- his most recent gripe -

_"Mattiiiie, Arthur forgot to send me Valentines' chocolates!"_

_Sigh. "I'm sure they just got delayed in the mail, Alfred. You're always complaining how you can never get anything on time." Mental note to buy chocolates and stick England's name on the tag..._

- or even his latest fads -  
_  
"Oh my god! Matt, I know I said before that bell-bottoms were dorky, but they're totally back in!"_

- Canada was always the first to hear everything, regardless of whether he wanted to or not. So America standing in his doorway was no surprise. The wheelbarrel full of syrup bottles on the other hand... that was _different_.

"Um... Al, are you planning on throwing a giant breakfast party again?" Canada looked at the wheelbarrow, noting that each of the bottles was a different brand, but that they were all the same flavour. He wasn't even aware that America liked maple that much, especially considering all of the weird kinds of syrup he tended to come up with. When there was a long, drawn-out quiet, Canada brought his gaze back up to meet his brother's.

America's brows were furrowed, lips twisted in a scowl. His eyes narrowed a little - their colour stormier than their usual clear blue. "No. It's not a party." The words were a bit clipped and that, in-itself, was something of a surprise, considering how much America liked to talk.

"Is everything okay? What's the matter? There wasn't a recall on maple products or something, was there?" He was pretty sure he would have heard about something like that, but America wasn't always great at timely information in regards to things that were actually important. Rumours and gossip, yes, but not the things it was vital to share.

"What's the matter?" America stared at him like he'd grown another head. "You know very well what's the matter!"

"No... I really don-" Canada wasn't allowed to finish his sentence. America cut him off, mid-word.

"Everyone says your maple syrup is better than mine! But my maple syrup is awesome! There's no way yours is better!" America panted a little after this outburst. "But whenever I ask anyone, they always like yours more! It's some kind of conspiracy, admit it! You don't like my syrup being better so you... like... brainwashed people into liking yours more!"

"Alfred... there's no such thing as a syrup conspiracy. Or brainwashing. That's not even poss-"

"You probably put something in all those containers of pancake mix, right? What'd you do? Subliminal messages in the flour? Well, whatever it is, I'm on to you!" Canada fell silent - realising this wasn't even worth trying to argue. It would be faster to just let America get to his point, however ridiculous it was. Which he did, after a few more moments of ranting on crop circles and how they weren't really by aliens but were part of said conspiracy meant to lure America's citizens away from the awesomeness that was America's syrup market. "-so I grabbed every bottle I could find and we're going to prove once and for all that I'm right!"

Thus saying, he shoved past Canada and into the house, the wheelbarrow leaving a dark track on Canada's clean hardwood floors. Canada winced at the sight but scurried after his brother, not trusting America not to do even worse to the rest of his furniture. America's goal was the kitchen table, where he started to unload all of the bottles, setting them up in neat rows before helping himself to a stack of small plates out of Canada's cabinets. He set them down on the table with a brisk, deliberate air, and turned to his brother with his chin raised ever so slightly in challenge. "Well then, let's do this thing!" He snatched up the nearest bottle and held it out in front of him, brandished like a weapon.

"I don't understand what it is you hope to accomplish by this, Al..." Canada looked at the array of bottles on the table, the corner of his mouth twitching just a little.

"I already told you, Mattie! It's a taste-off! To prove who has the best maple syrup!"

Canada let out a sigh, raising a hand and pinching at the bridge of his nose, right beneath his glasses. "You do know that taste is just a matter of opinion, right?"

America flipped open the cap on the bottle with a flourish, his eyes never leaving his brother's as he caught hold of one of the plates and held it up before him, pouring the thick syrup onto the plate.

"Are we going to at least have pancakes with this?"

"And risk you using your brainwashing pancake mix? No way! We'll have it the way it was meant to be had! On a plate!" He held out the plate with nothing but a gooey puddle in the center, to demonstrate his point. Canada looked down at the plate, then up at America, then at the plate again. He fought the urge to smack a hand across his forehead in exasperation. With a bit of effort, he also refrained from stating the obvious, that this whole insanity was just a recipe for triggering diabetic shock. Fifty bottles of syrup might not be enough to kill a nation, but it would probably give even America a tremendous belly-ache.

"Fine." Canada fought the urge to gag pre-emptively. "Let's get this over with..."

Three hours (and twenty-seven bottles) later, Canada was beginning to suspect he should have just thrown the crazy idiot out on his ass as soon as he showed up. "Milk... I need milk... or water... or a scrub pad for my tongue... oh god... I'll never taste anything but syrup again..."

He expected America to protest this - just as he had the last three attempts on Canada's part to end this lunacy. America had protested every suggestion Canada had made since the start of their little 'contest' - like when Canada had insisted they shouldn't need more than a spoonful of each to compare. America had given him a look that strongly suggested Canada was out to get him and had pulled out a bunch of shot glasses from Canada's cabinets to demonstrate what he thought of this notion. This time though, America only nodded and let out a hard breath. His chest was rising and falling rather quickly, and there was a certain dilated look to his eyes that was rather alarming.

When America almost dropped the glass of milk that Canada poured him, the alarm really kicked in. "A-al... are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" America took a deliberate swig of the milk, slopping more of it onto his shirt than he got in his mouth, his hands were shaking so much.

Okay... this was never going to do... The dumbass was going to kill himself before he conceded defeat in this stupid contest that wasn't even a contest. Canada had long since ceased feeling smug at the thought of anyone thinking his own maple syrup was better than his brother's. He took a gulp out of his own glass, swishing it around enough to get most of the taste out of his mouth before swallowing. He had to find some way to distract America from this mess!

A solution didn't strike him until America tugged off the wet shirt, hissing like a fussy cat as he tossed it onto the floor. When Canada gave him a funny look, he immediately grabbed up another bottle and poured himself a syrup shot. Canada could see the slight bob of America's Adam's apple as he swallowed, then he coughed. A couple of drops fell from the glass to land on his bare skin, just below his collarbone.

Canada swallowed, reached out a finger and dragged the tip through the splatter. He could feel America jerking at the touch, looking at him in surprise and incomprehension as he brought his syrup-stained finger to his lips and licked the stickiness off. It took everything in him to not shudder at the cloying sweetness; he only managed it by keeping his eyes focused on America's expression, which was slowly shifting to one of confusion. Well, he had America's attention anyway... Canada drew his finger into his mouth to get the last of the syrup from it and was rewarded as America put down the glass very quickly.

"I-it's your turn to-to try it, Mattie..." America poured more syrup into the glass before holding it out to Canada.

He took it but didn't try to taste it just yet, dipping his fingers into it and watching as it oozed across his skin and dripped back into the cup. Just this one more and then he would hopefully be done with this debacle... Canada flicked his tongue across his fingertip, swirling around the digit and looking at his brother with a suggestive glint to his eyes that was unmistakable even to someone who usually couldn't read the atmosphere. He knew America had gotten the point by the way those blue eyes dilated even further, tongue flicking across his lips.

If America had planned to say something, they would never know what it was as Canada darted forward, sealing their mouths together in an urgent kiss. America's hands clenched, rose to grip at the fabric of Canada's shirt, loosely for a moment, then with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a life preserver.

Canada's own fingers were idling, tracing along the rise of America's collarbone before skirting lower. He could feel the shiver low in his belly and taste the syrup on his brother's tongue. It was diluted by the uniqueness that was America - the faint but lingering remnants of that hamburger flavour that was never entirely overpowered. If should have been an odd combination, but it only set the blood rushing hotter in his veins. They only broke away when the need for air became too pressing to ignore, panting harshly beneath the quiet hum of the kitchen fan.

Blue eyes narrowed a fraction as America regarded him - suspicion blooming in his eyes. "Are you trying to distract me...?" Surprising that he'd figured it out so quickly! Canada was not deterred, however, only brushing his tongue against America's lower lip before pulling back just a tad.

"You know maple does this to me." It didn't, but America had always assumed it did anyway, so it wasn't really a lie. And if it was... then it was justified. It was a little lie that was going to keep the two of them from going to war over a triviality like syrup. As ludicrous as it sounded, there had been wars over lesser things before... "You knew it and you've been cramming me full of the stuff all morning, so this is all your fault."

America shuddered at whatever it was he was seeing in Canada's eyes, swallowed, then mewled as Canada leaned in to press lips against his throat, laving his bare skin with short swipes of his tongue. Fingers traced along his chest, leaving a long, sticky trail that Canada followed with his mouth. He paused as he felt America stumble on his feet, reaching for the chair as though he would sit and knocking it halfway across the floor instead.

He swept in, one hand grabbing at America's hip, forcing him to shift, the both of them staggering a little as he guided America to lean back against the edge of the table, the only steady thing within reach. Once America's backside was braced against the firm wood, the touches resumed, tentative at first, then gaining in confidence as America made those shuddery, pleased noises low in his throat. For a moment he could almost forget why he was doing this - not that it mattered why, not when they were both hot and sticky and utterly _needy_. Maple syrup wasn't important. America's paranoid ego wasn't important. The overturned wheelbarrow still in Canada's kitchen wasn't even important.

Hands fumbled as they slid low, tracing the band of America's pants. Canada felt the slight shiver of an indrawn breath and heard the creak of the protesting wood as America gripped at the table he was leaning against. Burying a smirk against the side of America's neck, Canada tried to unbutton by feel alone, failed the first two times and felt America's hands come up atop his, still trembling but much steadier than they had been only a moment ago. The button pulled loose, the soft swish of the zipper, and then America was lifting his hips from the wood long enough for Canada to jerk the jeans down to his thighs.

He hooked his index finger in the elastic of America's UFO boxers, but he didn't remove them at first, merely rubbing against the trapped flesh, feeling the heat beneath the pad of this thumb right beside the little green aliens that frolicked across his shorts. He traced the shape of America's shaft where it lay hard beneath his touch, then drew the fabric down to expose his brother to the open air. Canada cupped his palm across the length of his erection, his other hand groping for the bottle they'd left sitting open.

There was a telltale catch in America's breath as the first droplet of syrup hit him just below the naval, then Canada's syrup-sticky fingers ran along the underside of America's shaft and made him buck into the touch. It wasn't normally this fast... Canada might have been alarmed just how quick America's pulse was against his skin - the sugar high coursing through America's body and setting every reaction to a trip trigger. It was also possibly what was making Canada's head so swimmy, the heat in his nethers spiking as he felt America's weight shifting. America's hands braced against the tabletop, knuckles white, and Canada could sense the tremors in them moments before they skidded out from beneath. Bottles scattered across the floor - most plastic, thankfully - hitting with sharp hollow noises and wet splats. Neither of them paid this any mind, America's back now flat against the wood of the table, knees splayed just a fraction and quivering.

Canada rubbed the tip of his thumb against that hot skin, still sticky and clinging, waited for America to lift his head enough to see what was going on, then lowered his mouth to lap away the syrup in long, lingering flicks of his tongue. A choked noise was the only response, and Canada buried a grin against the warm flesh before shifting up a couple of centimeters more and parting his lips further to engulf the head of America's shaft. He tasted of an odd combination of sweat and sweet, even his scent was tinged with maple and musk as Canada sank down halfway and heard a strangled moan reward him for his efforts.

His other hand dropped low to palm at the rise in his own trousers and he didn't even care that he was ruining the fabric as he rubbed and kneaded through the concealing material. There was a low, constant thrumming on the air - it took him a moment to recognise it as his brother's needful keening. A hand tangled in the softness of his hair, sticky, like everything else... even the air was sticky and warm and America was bucking up into his mouth, mewling like a cat in heat - all the amusing sounds that Canada could only wish he had a camera to record because it would so be prime blackmail material - then he was swallowing around the hard length in his mouth, diving low to take America as deep as he could - and god, he couldn't deep-throat as easily as America, but it was moments like this he forgot that fact in the heat of the moment...

America let out a strangled howl, his grip in Canada's hair so strong that it would have hurt if Canada could feel pain at the moment. His own fingers were clenched around himself through the bothersome fabric, so desperate that it was amazing he didn't tear the material. Hung on the edge of the precipice for a moment and then tumbled helplessly over as a different sort of sticky warmth burst against his tongue.

Shuddered, as he felt the slow downward spiral that always followed too quickly on the heels of climax. Canada raised his head and felt America slide from between his lips - his throat slightly raw from the efforts, but a deeper sense of satisfaction snaking through him.

He panted, soft and hoarse, running a hand along America's flank and feeling his fingers clinging slightly to the smooth skin, still sticky with the remnants of the syrup. It was everywhere, in his hair, on his fingers, oozing from beneath America's back where they'd knocked over a half-full bottle. They were sweat sticky too, on top of the sugary maple. Canada didn't have to look to know that the kitchen was a hodgepodge of bottles and that damned wheelbarrow, but he didn't care about that, or even about the mess he'd made of his trousers. With a soft laugh, he eased up a bit, one hand braced against the table beside America's shoulder, their lips brushing for a moment.

A long moment of silence, then America panted out a few words. "You did that on purpose."

Canada gave a sharp choke of laughter at that, the indignation in his brother's tone. "You were going to force me to taste-test fifty bottles of syrup, Al. It was self defense."

America pouted, "But... my maple syrup... is awesome..." He turned his head away, biting at his lower lip in a way that was either infuriating or too damn cute. "And now I'll never know which is really better... except that everyone says yours is and-"

_Goddamn it..._

He cut off the rest of the words with a slow, lingering kiss, stealing away both the protests and America's ability to form coherent thoughts. When he drew back, America was panting again, his eyes half-lidded. But his heart was no longer racing in that alarming fashion, the exhaustion seeping through his limbs and leaving him weak as a kitten beneath Canada's ministrations. A pouty kitten.

A smile flickered across Canada's lips, fond despite himself, as he half draped himself on the table and felt something sticky dampening the elbow of his shirt. He paid it no mind as he nuzzled at America's cheek, lips grazing the curve of his brother's ear. "Hmm... well, if it means anything to you, I like your syrup the best."

Sleepy blue eyes flitted to him, a hopeful upturn at the corners of America's lips. "Really?"

"Well..." Canada amended, playfulness dancing through his voice. "As long as it's not from Vermont." He pressed their lips together to prevent the protest and felt America melt against him, arms wrapped around his middle as they snuggled on the uncomfortably hard table, curled together in a damp, sticky heap. He was going to regret this when he was sore later, but for the moment, Canada dozed in a sweet, maple-tinted bliss.

And for a moment, he could even forgive his brother's reckless idiocy...

...but not the wheelbarrow...

_**~ End ~**_

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_A/N: You know... someone might think I have a bias for Canada/America... ^.^_

_All my exchanges are done except for the Hetalia Minibang final draft. Normal Updates will resume shortly._


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